


To Split A Coin

by EmmasHouse



Series: Stones Unturning [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows About Morgana's Magic (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Dark Merlin (Merlin), Gen, Good Morgana (Merlin), Gwen & Arthur Pendragon Friendship (Merlin), M/M, hes figuring things out, kind of but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23872654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmasHouse/pseuds/EmmasHouse
Summary: On the way to Camelot, Merlin encounters Nimueh, a sorceress who makes him an offer he can't refuse. She agrees to teach him magic if he helps her take down the Pendragons. Only, this proves to be increasingly complicated as a prophecy unfolds, and Merlin keeps saving Arthur's life by accident.
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Stones Unturning [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720462
Comments: 16
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

“You know there’s nothing for you in Camelot.” The woman had said, blue silk billowing at her feet. Without a doubt she was the most beautiful woman Merlin had ever seen in all sixteen years of his life. Her features were like nothing he’d ever seen in the women back home--all sharp and regal. Her skin was unabraded, unscarred, and unknown to age. 

“How do you know I’m going to Camelot?” Merlin asked once he came to his senses. Inexplicably he was torn between moving closer and backing away from her.

“I know everything.” She responded simply. “I know your mother has sent you to Camelot to apprentice for-” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “-Gaius. And I know why she won’t let you stay with her in your precious village.”

Merlin backed away by then, frantically, seeing his worst fear realized before he’d even left Essetir. 

“I mean no harm to you.” The woman stalked forward, and Merlin could swear there was light glittering beneath her skin for all it glowed. “I only wish to make you a counter offer, from sorceress to sorcerer.”

Merlin tripped over his feet as he clamored backwards, while a ball of light appeared in the woman’s hand. He was caught somewhere between shock and intrigue. In sixteen years of suppressing his magic, Merlin had never once met someone like him 

“Who-who are you?” The words tumbled out of his mouth, shoving past all of his conscious warnings to run the other way. He was only two days away from Ealdor. In theory, he could turn back. 

“I am Nimueh, High Priestess of the Old Religion, former Court Sorcerer to King Uther.” She said the words with pride, but seemed to spit them out, as though she couldn’t bear the weight behind them. 

“I’m Merlin.” Awkwardly, Merlin got back up on his feet. “...son of Hunith, former farm hand to Simmons.”

_ Great,  _ he thought bitterly.  _ Real title you’ve got there.  _

“But you’re more than that, Merlin, aren’t you? You’ve got something no other farmhand could even dream of.”

“You said you had an offer.” Merlin forced his voice to be louder, stronger in the face of her taunting. 

“Straight to the point, then.” She laughed, all sarcasm and no mirth. “I like that.”

Merlin stayed silent, trying to endue his expression with more sobriety. 

“Fine, fine. My offer is this--don’t go to Camelot. Forget about Gaius and be _ my _ apprentice. My right-hand, my partner in this war against the Pendragons.”

“Why?” Merlin gaped, nearly tripping again from his shock. He had expected her so-called offer to consist of servantry, in the best case scenario. Afterall, it made no sense for her to offer this to Merlin, who didn’t even know a single spell. 

“Because as much as it pains me to say this, you are powerful, Merlin. I would hate to see your potential lost to the Camelot gallows.”

Merlin felt his stomach seize at the mention of gallows. It would always make him think of his mother shaking two days prior, telling him that he must never use any magic again if he is to survive in Camelot. 

“So let me get this sorted…” He said slowly, looking Nimueh up and down, trying to sense an earnestness in her eldritch beauty. “You want to teach me magic and....to work with me?”

“Yes.” She said, with hints of exasperation. 

“Show me something first, then.” He responded, wary of being taken advantage of. Mostly though, because he was anxious to learn magic and to see it performed by someone else. 

“Fine.” She said, seemingly unsettled by his suspicions but completely unfazed. “Kneel.”

“Why?”

“It is about tuning your magic to the elements. Magic comes from The Triple Goddess and she is in nature. The purpose of this exercise is to tune your magic to her’s-to remind her that you serve her and that her magic serves you. So, kneel.” Nimueh said, already on her knees. Merlin stared in disbelief, watching as the fine silk of her dress (nicer than anything his mother owned) was dirtied by the forest floor. Reluctantly, he agreed and sank to his knees. 

“Now what?”

“Sink your hands into the soil, and close your eyes.” He did as he was told, fighting back the voice telling him that he looked like an idiot. 

“Now, I want you to focus on the feeling of life beneath you. Sense the roots of the trees-the way they intertwine and pull at each other. Look for the water they take in, find the river it comes from.”

Merlin could hear water rushing in his ears. He opened his eyes, looking around for the stream. Only, there was no stream in sight, probably wasn’t for miles. 

“No.” Nimueh whispered. “Keep your eyes closed. Replace all of your senses with your magic, and magic alone. Focus on the feeling of the earth. Sink your hands in deeper, until you can feel the roots against your fingertips.”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut tighter when the sound of the stream began to fade. It was replaced by a new sound--a flutter of wings, a butterfly that he couldn’t see but knew was moving above them. He felt the magic coming alive, impossibly so, beneath his skin. It felt like liquid gold, warm, unadulterated and coursing through his veins. 

“Now find a seed.” Nimueh said, louder this time. 

“What?” He asked, breathless and keeping his eyes firmly closed. He was desperate to hold on to this feeling as long as he could. 

“Find a seed in the soil with your magic.”

“How do I do that?” 

“Can you feel the ground beneath you?” She asked gently, soft for the first time since they had met. 

“Yes.” He could sense the places where trees were planted, hot and bursting with life, trailing all of the way to where their roots mingled below the surface.

“Look for the cold spots. The empty spots that don’t just feel like negative space--the ones that feel like energy.”

Merlin gasped, he felt as though his blood was molten and swelling in his veins. He felt a seed, a dandelion that had yet to grow. 

“How do I make it grow?”

“Blóstmá.” She whispered and Merlin could feel a flower bloom in front of her. He repeated after her, and opened his eyes to see the dandelion sprout up, unfurling from the ground and blooming in mere seconds. 

“I’ve never done anything like that before.” He breathed, turning to face the woman, Nimueh, with wide eyes. “At least not on purpose.”

“That, my dear Merlin, is only the beginning of what I can teach you.”

༺ ═──────────────═༻

Merlin felt sick as he laid back on the bed (the first bed he’s ever seen, let alone slept on in his whole life). He thought about writing to his mother, knowing that Gaius would write to her when Merlin never showed. He wasn’t sure what to say, how to explain that he chose magic over her. 

Even if that wasn’t the whole truth, that is what it felt like. It felt like Nimueh had asked Merlin to choose between trusting his mother and her plans for him, and the possibility of power, of understanding the magic he held. What if he had chosen wrong? What if his mother didn’t want to see him again after this? Then a sick part of his mind asked whether or not Nimueh would let him see her again. 

He felt a little bit like a prisoner, as Nimueh led him through her fortress, a large castle, although it was more similar to ruins than an actual building, somewhere near the Seas of Meredor. Most of the rooms had solid, stone roofs, which was more than Merlin could say of his own house. She showed him to ‘his quarters,’--a large room with a single bed and an old table with an even older chair. She said to get a good night’s rest, that they would have lessons in the morning.

But it was impossible to sleep with all of Merlin’s guilt over abandoning Hunith’s wishes weighing over him. It was stifling, this point of complete uncertainty, and he had no way to tell if he had done the right thing. Tears were stinging at his eyes before Merlin could even try to calm himself down. 

It felt as if the world was trying to crush him slowly, flatten him into nothing.

“You made a brave choice.” A woman appeared in the doorway, speaking gently. “A difficult one, but a brave one indeed.” 

“Who are you?” Merlin wiped at his tears furiously, trying not to show any weakness towards whoever she was. Nimueh had said that a number of sorcerers and sorceresses lived in the fortress, all allied against the evils of Camelot. 

“I’m Nimueh’s ward, Morgause.” She answered, pulling a long, blonde braid over her shoulder. Her nightgown was simple, a green silk embroidered with gold thread, but it was the second finest article of clothing Merlin had ever seen. He wondered if all sorceresses lived in such regalia, or if Nimueh was just of noble blood. 

“I’m Merlin.” He pulled himself up to a sitting position at the foot of the bed. 

“I know. Nimueh told me. Couldn’t wait to meet you, if I’m honest.” She sat down next to him. “Most of the sorcerers I meet are like a thousand years old.”

“Not that I’m that young, mind you.” She added in response to Merlin’s expression. “But I’m only twenty-five. I mean-” She faltered, “Alvarr’s twenty-two but he might as well be a child for how he acts.”

Merlin laughed, despite having never met Alvarr. It felt like the right thing to do, like it was what she expected him to do.

When his laughter died, there was silence. And tension, as Merlin’s thoughts drifted back to his mother. 

“I’m worried that I made the wrong choice coming here.” Merlin confessed, eyes cast down.

“Well, in Camelot you would be living the life of a fugitive, always looking over your shoulder, afraid of every knight you saw. You would suppress your magic, deny yourself until it hurt too much. Uther wouldn’t hesitate to kill you over even the most harmless magic.

“With us, you’re surrounded by people who will understand you even better than your own mother. She meant well for you, I’m sure. But it’s difficult for anyone without magic to understand the agony of hiding who you truly are.”

“I’ve never studied magic before.” He said, almost whispering, afraid one of the other sorcerers would hear him down the hall. He was terrified of all of them at first. They had years of training and experience where he was only sixteen and spent most of his life trying to subdue his own magic. 

“When I was a baby, a man brought me to Nimueh and the other High Priestesses-when there were actually nine of them- and told them to raise me. He said that my mother feared the worst for me-a bastard child born to a witch while her husband was at war. She gave me the chance she knew I wouldn’t have with her--the chance to actually do something with my gifts and make a difference. You chose to come with Nimueh, and you gave yourself that chance. You should be proud of yourself.”

“I know it’s silly but-but I’m scared I won’t be any good at it.” Merlin had kept his eyes trained on the sky outside the window as they sat at the foot of his unfamiliar bed, in his unfamiliar room. 

“Anyone can be ‘good’ at magic. It’s not about knowledge or age, even. It’s about you and your connection to the natural world. That is the very basis of the Old Religion, of magic itself.”

Morgause spent the rest of the night in Merlin’s room, teaching him prayers to the Triple Goddess, and explaining the basics of the Old Religion. She told him how spells worked, and why sorcerers couldn’t do magic without them. Merlin bit back the desire to say that he’d been doing magic without spells all his life. But that night, Morgause had shown herself to be an ally, even more so than Nimueh. She made the dilapidated, cold fortress seem like more of a home then he would have thought possible. 

༺ ═──────────────═༻

**One month later..**

The first person Nimueh has him kill is a servant in Essetir. His name is Andagh and is only a few years older than Merlin. They’ve met before, a few times, actually. Andagh’s job was to report the movements of Cenred’s troops to Nimueh, and while he waited each week to speak with her, he would talk to Merlin. They discussed all sorts of things, from food to politics to growing up. He was somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend, but Merlin found himself looking forward to their talks every week. 

Andagh ends up telling Cenred everything, about Nimueh’s plans to kill Uther and how she’s infiltrated Camelot, the minute a blade is angled at his throat. 

“Can’t Morgause do it?” Merlin asks feebly, feeling for the first time since his arrival, that despite Nimueh’s words, they are not equals at all. She does not respect him or his power--she views him as a pawn, prophecies or not. 

“You cannot lead, Merlin, if you are unwilling to kill.”

“He’s just a boy, though. He didn’t mean to-”

“He agreed to work for me the same as you did. The same as Alator does and the same as Alvarr. He knew what would happen if he were to betray me.”

Silently, she communicates that should Merlin ever betray her, she would have him killed. And if Merlin didn’t agree to kill Andagh, then he would be betraying her. He can’t force the words from his mouth, not yet. But he nods in acquiescence. 

He kills Andagh with a blade. His own blade. It is the same one that Will gave him for his thirteenth birthday, for the purpose of preparing rabbits whenever their hunting efforts were successful. Will had been subtle in his hints that the blade was for his own protection, should someone ever discover his secrets.

Merlin felt a piece of him, a piece of the Merlin Will knew, that his mother knew, deteriorate as he plunges it into Andagh’s chest. He felt filthy using magic to immobilize him first, ensuring that he could make it swift. On the outside, it just looked like cruelty. The way his eyes widened as he recognized it was Merlin- who he had once discussed the loss of childhood with at length. Merlin didn’t believe that living souls could be good or bad-that judgement could not truly come until death-but since that moment, he knew there was a part of his that was going to be dark forever. 

Nimueh uses him as her own personal assassin from there on out. She likes the way each target breaks him, if only a little bit. She likes seeing him embittered and guilt-ridden, becoming closer to the person she is. Somehow, it cements his loyalty, the fact that he’s willing to sacrifice his morals for her. Mostly though, as she confides in Morgause when she thinks Merlin can’t hear her, Nimueh likes watching it get easier. 

After Andagh, Merlin stayed shut up in his room for weeks. But then, after Evot, he is back to studying with her only two days later. The guilt over Deveah lasts only one night, and for Edwin, he grieves not a minute. 

This is something he does not tell his mother in his letters. 

༺═──────────────═༻

**Six months later...**

The first time Merlin meets Arthur, it is an accident. He really shouldn’t have been in Camelot in the first place. Nimueh told him to investigate the death of the sorcerer merchant Devlin and was explicitly clear in her instructions that should the investigation take him to Camelot, Merlin was to turn back immediately. 

Only, once Merlin caught the trail of Devlin’s assassin he couldn’t help himself. A warrior using a magic shield against the Knights of Camelot? Merlin had to go, if only to cheer this so-called Valiant on. 

At least that was until he met the guy. As soon as Merlin carried out one horrible conversation with Valiant, in which every single part of him was insulted, he knew he was going to kill him. Regardless of what Nimueh wanted, Merlin was already in Camelot and it seemed a right shame not to seek vengeance for Devlin. He was supposed to carve Merlin a staff before he died, afterall. 

He made his way to Valiant's chambers, armed only with a dagger. He had half a mind to cast a cloaking enchantment on himself, but he’d only tried it once and he had Nimueh’s help then. He walked on through the castle, wondering what kind of life he would have led here had he not met Nimueh on the way. 

When he finds the knight asleep, and the shield laid brazenly on the bedside table, Merlin almost thinks it’s too easy. He casts an immobility spell on Valiant, before burying the dagger in his chest. 

He isn’t the first man Merlin’s killed, not by a long shot, but the feeling was still something he was getting used to. He needed to remind himself that this man was evil--he was a ruthless bully who harmed even those who helped them. Still, Merlin couldn’t ignore the bile rising in his throat as he looked down on the man he’d just killed. His magic could feel the life-the soul-draining out of the knight. It was chilling.

(Eventually, Merlin will find out that by killing Valiant, he saved Prince Arthur’s life. This is a fact that Morgause will never let him forget and that Nimueh will stop speaking to him for a week over.) 

He shook his head, snapping out of it as he reached for the shield. The last item Devlin had ever made. 

“What have you done?” A voice bellowed from the doorway and Merlin spun around to see a golden-haired man, brandishing an ornate dagger in his own hand. He was decidedly a noble, Merlin could tell from his accent and his posture alone. 

“Terribly sorry,” Merlin muttered, grabbing the seal and making for the window. “But I have to go.”

“I order you to stop!” The man shouted and Merlin couldn’t help but turn to face him again, just to roll his eyes. It was a mistake, and Merlin found himself face to face with the noble,with a tanned hand wrapped around his wrist and a dagger at his throat. He could practically hear Nimueh scolding him for hesitating in his escape. 

“And who are you to order me?” Merlin whispered, fixing his gaze defiantly on the man’s narrowed eyes.

“The Prince.” He growled, and pressed harder on the dagger. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Highness.” Merlin whispered, voice hoarse from the pressure at his neck. 

“Why did you kill that knight?” The Prince asked and Merlin blinked in surprise. He should be dead by now, right? The dagger was pressed even harder now, digging into Merlin’s flesh enough to break the skin.

“Not really in a position to talk, am I?” Merlin gasped, and he could feel the light incision the blade had made.

“Give me a reason to let you speak.” 

Bringing out the snakes in Valiant’s shield was probably not the reason the Prince was looking for, but it was the only thing Merlin could think to do. Wordless magic, while Nimueh deemed it superfluous, was Merlin’s specialty and the only thing that worked to his advantage at the moment. 

The snakes merged and Arthur jumped back, releasing his hold on Merlin and effortless switching positions so the dagger was pointed at Merlin’s heart. 

“He was using magic.” Arthur breathed out, shock etched into every line on his face. 

“Well I don’t know if I would say he was using it.” Merlin responded immediately, feeling defensive of himself. “It’s more of a parlour trick than anything else. I mean, all he had to do was tell them what to do which completely negates the craft-”

“Silence, sorcerer!” The prince shouted, jumping back again as the snakes nipped at his feet. Merlin ran his dagger along the face of the shield, cutting off the heads in one fell swoop. 

“I’m going to go now.” He backed towards the window, reaching behind him to unlatch the window. 

“You can’t-you’re-you’re under arrest!” 

“You know you can just say thank you.” Merlin responded, sticking one leg out the window, and keeping his dagger pointed on the Prince. “I don’t work for tips.”

He jumped out the window and started for the woods, feeling Arthur’s eyes on his back from the window. He made it to the edge of the lower town when Merlin’s head began pounding with a thunderous voice.

_ Merlin!  _ It shouted in his head, the same way Nimueh had whispered to him on the outskirts of Essetir while he trekked to Camelot all those months ago.  _ Merlin! _

He followed the voice to a dungeon, knocking out two guards along the way. He walked along a narrow tunnel until he reached the mouth of the cavern, larger than any of the caves he and Will had wandered in their youth. In the center of the cave was a small mountain of boulders, and atop them, a monstrous dragon with gleaming red scales. Merlin almost fell onto his back from the shock. Nimueh had said King Uther killed every last dragon. It made no sense that  _ this  _ should be here, at the heart of Camelot. 

“Young warlock you have made many mistakes but none as great this.” Merlin stood straighter, leveling his gaze against the great beast.

“You have gone with the sorceress, negating all that has been prewritten for centuries.”

“Do you mean Nimueh?” Merlin asked, feeling hopelessly small in a way he hadn’t since Will’s dad had crushed his head beneath his boot for sneaking into their house late at night. 

“Of course I do! She has used to cheat fate at the risk of the loss of all magic!”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“You’re a fool if you stay with her. Your destiny is far greater than that of that witch! She cares not for you, not for anything but power!”

“Hey!” Merlin shouted, defensive. “She took me in! She’s the only person who’s ever told me I wasn’t broken! She doesn’t think I’m a monster, she thinks I have talent!”

“She gives you only a taste of what destiny has to offer. You should be here, in Camelot!” It snapped back. 

“What, like you’re in Camelot?” Merlin yelled back. He wasn’t going to be insulted by someone kept captive by Uther Pendragon. He would never be so weak. “Chained up? You’d rather I be a prisoner in Camelot than free with Nimueh?”

“The Fates said you would be selfless, young warlock. I fear that they were wrong.”

“You can’t possibly judge me!” He shouted. “No prophecy, no matter how ancient, knows me better than I know myself! I don’t need you to tell me anything!”

“Perhaps not yet.” The dragon’s tone shifted, from sobriety to sarcasm in an instant. “But there will come a time when I will be your greatest ally, your only ally in this war you have waged on destiny. There will come a time, quite soon, when you will ask a great favor of me. But be warned, it will come with a price.”

“How dare you call me selfish? You think you know everything just because you have power.” Merlin’s voice fell as he tried to douse his fury. In the past six months, there had been talk of prophecies, of course. Nimueh finally ceded the truth to him after a Druid elder came to Merlin in a dream, warning him that the High Priestess was not to be trusted. He hated how the druids spoke of the prophecy, like it was this grand, unchangeable act that could not be rewritten, could not be evaded. He was sick of it. “There is more to wisdom than power and age.”

“When have I claimed to be wise, young warlock?” The dragon seemed to grin. “I don’t pretend to know you. I only know what is coming, and the regret you will feel.”

Merlin stormed out and ran for the woods, temper hot under his skin. He felt anger welling up in his chest, boiling magic bubbling inside of him. As soon as he hit the forest, he fell to his knees and pounded his fists against the floor until a tree came crashing down. 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur was compelled to believe in fate. Because surely mere coincidence couldn’t have such a strong flair for irony. The griffin’s claws were poised above his chest, and how funny it was that the Prince of Camelot should be lost to a magical beast, of all things. Especially one as ridiculous as the griffin. Arthur wanted to laugh in its face, for what God would be so cruel as to make such a strange, patchwork creature? Besides, laughter was a good way to go out. A death in battle was noble, for sure, but against griffin? Arthur would surely be left out of the history books. 

The small group of men who accompanied him into the forest for this patrol were long dead. They had been bitten and clawed to oblivion, foolishly acting as human shields for the Prince. This was a coward’s death, and Arthur knew it. 

The beast lifted it’s claws high, ready to strike, when suddenly there was the clatter of a sword meeting the griffin’s metallic pelt, and Arthur was on his feet again. 

“Quickly, sire!” A man shouted and threw Arthur’s abandoned sword. Arthur reached out a hand to grab it, pausing not even for a second before entering the battle. Just as Arthur’s did, the other man’s sword bounced harmlessly off of the griffin’s hide. But the two of them found a strange sort of rhythm in their strikes. It was exhilarating, and Arthur felt almost drunk off the harmony of the battle. He didn’t fight this well, this seamlessly in stride with even Leon, his First Knight. 

The beast prawled towards them, and Arthur glanced at his savior, inclining his head back, slightly to the left, wordlessly indicating a course of action. In an instant, each man stepped back, and moved towards’ the beast’s left. 

“I’m going to jump.” Arthur grunted, and the man seemed to understand instantly, moving towards the beast and kneeling down. “On three!”

“One!” Arthur braced himself as the beast beat its wings, moving towards where the other man was knelt. 

“Two!” He took off into a sprint. 

“Three!” He launched himself off the man’s knee and onto the griffin’s back. He grabbed each end of his sword, the blade painfully digging into his palm as he pulled it against the beast’s neck. He pulled with all his might, with all of the strength left inside of him, and cried out as his skin was torn, but the griffin was only mildly injured. Injured enough though, to thrash Arthur from its back. 

The two men began to run, matching each other step for step, as the griffin took flight, thankfully in the opposite direction. When it disappeared from sight, they took refuge behind a log. At last, Arthur had the opportunity to really look upon the man who’d saved his life. 

He was dark-skinned, with brown hair that curled around the nape of his neck. Most notably, perhaps, he was dressed in peasant clothing. A simple, stained white tunic and well-worn brown trousers. _ He’s not even a knight _ , Arthur thought dumbly,  _ and yet he fights so well.  _

“I’m Lancelot, your Highness.” He said between breaths, extending a hand. 

“Prince Arthur,” Arthur grasped the other man’s hand firmly, still reeling from the battle. “Though I guess you already know that.”

“It’s impossible for one not to recognize the best fighter in all of Albion.” Lancelot said somberly, inclining his head in a half-bow. 

“You fight remarkably well yourself.” Arthur said, and couldn’t help but laugh as Lancelot’s cheeks reddened. 

“I’ve been training all my life.”

“As have I.” Arthur responded, tearing a strip of fabric from his tunic and wrapping it around his bleeding hand. He felt Lancelot’s gaze on him. 

“Though I’ve never met anyone who could keep up with me.” He added, feeling his lips curl into a smile as he remembered matching the man next to him, strike for strike, breath for breath. It was an experience like no other. He’d never met a knight that could not only match his pace, but anticipate his strikes. He spared a glance over at the other man. This strange peasant who had appeared from nowhere, just to save Arthur from an honorless death.

“Nor I.” Lancelot was smiling up at the sky, and Arthur watched as beads of sweat dripped down from his hair down his neck. It seemed that for all the adrenaline and stress of battle, Lancelot found it as thrilling as Arthur did. 

“That really was some fight.”

“Forgive my insensitivity, sire. But it was nothing short of incredible.” At that, Arthur let loose a real laugh, full of all the mirth and bubbling happiness inside of his chest. 

“I almost wish it would return.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Lancelot laughed, and the kinship Arthur felt here seemed to dull the sharp loss Sirs Dagonet and Kay. He lost two loyal men today, even if he had also fought the most incredible battle of his life.

“Can’t believe your reflexes.” Arthur continued, trying to force his lost knights from his mind. “And you’re not even a knight.” 

“It’s my life’s ambition to be.” Lancelot sighed. Arthur wondered what it would be like if he tried to convince his father to knight a commoner. The conversation wouldn’t end well, that was certain. It might even end with Lancelot’s death, as a message, but more likely as a reminder for Arthur to maintain obedience. 

“It’s my life’s dream to fight every battle like that.” Arthur sighed back, feeling helpless. He wished he could knight Lancelot right then and there, make him promise to always fight like that, to never leave Arthur’s side in every battle from here on out. “But I’m afraid it’s just not possible. The Code only permits those of noble blood.”

“Blood is a curse indeed.” Lancelot didn’t seem crestfallen at Arthur’s rejection. His face seemed to relax in a silent acceptance, only there was a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “But it is one we all bear.”

“I wish it weren’t so.” Arthur said quietly, and for the first time in his life, truly thought about what he would  _ change  _ as King. He wished desperately that knighthood rested upon merit alone, and knows that it will be the first thing he does when he is crowned, in however many years that may be. 

“Why is your dream to be knighted?” Arthur asked, after feeling guilt and grief take hold of him too fiercely in all moments of silence. 

“When I was a boy, my family was killed by bandits.” Lancelot hadn’t moved his gaze from the sky. Arthur watched as his eyes fluttered closed, face contorting at the memory. “In my heartbreak, I vowed that he would never again be helpless in the face of tyranny. Ever since, my life has been dedicated to swordsmanship and combat.” He paused, drawing in a deep breath and opening his eyes to face Arthur.

“I don’t crave the glory of being a knight.” He said, eyes dark and steeled. “It’s not even the battle that I want. It’s the virtue of it. Having such a strong moral code and such a valuable purpose that you are almost divine.”

Arthur found himself struggling for words, feeling a tightness in his throat. He’d never voiced it himself, or even put it into words, but Arthur knew exactly what Lancelot meant. He felt such an intense longing then, to have this man at his side in battle, in life. It was a kinship like no other, and it was something Arthur had sought all his life. 

“What if there was a way you could fight with me, with the Knights, without breaking the Code?”

He knew at that moment that there was no way he was returning to Camelot without Lancelot. There was a way for Arthur to keep him close to him, to have him as a knight, albeit unofficially. It was highly immoral, going against both his father’s Code and Arthur’s own desire for his men to get the credit they deserved, but it was better than the alternative. 

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”

“You could return to Camelot with me, and I could tell my father how you saved my life.” Arthur began, letting all the pieces of his plan come together in his mind. “Instead of even trying to defend your merit as a knight, I’ll ask that he reward you a place in the royal household. You’ll be my manservant, which is a position of little honor, but you’ll be able to accompany me on every patrol and quest. When I’m through training with the knights each day, we will go to the woods, where I’ll train you. In the moments that matter, you will fight with us. I’ll tell the knights that I trust most, of course, and I’m confident that they will not betray our secret, especially after seeing you fight.”

“Do you really think that would work?” Arthur watched hopefully as Lancelot bit his lower lip. 

“There’s no way to know.” He said, extending a hand towards Lancelot as he stood. “But I refuse to let your potential go to waste. You may not have noble blood, but your heart is nobler than most.”

Lancelot grasped his hand, pulling himself to his feet. There was a look of finality, of determination in his eyes as he shook Arthur’s hand. 

They walked back to Camelot, each ready in their own right for what was to come. 

༺═──────────────═༻

**Six months later…**

Lancelot was still out in the woods, searching for tracks. But Arthur needed to return, in case there were any urgent matters of state. Unlike his manservant, the Prince couldn’t afford to spend all day in search of whatever beast the villagers swore they saw two weeks ago. 

“I’m going to say something.” Morgana said, backing him Arthur into the corner of the stable. There wasn’t a guard or servant in sight, which was only slightly unnerving, as Arthur thought she actually might kill him. She had that look in her eyes, wordlessly saying that one wrong move meant his life was over. “But I need you to promise me that it stays between us.”

“That depends on what it is.”

“No, Arthur. I need you to promise me right now that you won’t say a word to anyone.”

“Calm down. It’s not like it’s-”

“It is a matter of life or death.  **My** life or death.”

“Okay, I promise.” Arthur sombered, hearing the desperation in her voice.

“I think I have magic.”

The breath left his lungs completely as soon as the word ‘magic’ escaped her lips. It didn’t seem to fully return until long after she’d explained her prophetic dreams, and how she’d lit her curtains on fire the night before. 

She was sobbing by the end of it, leaving Arthur no room for denial. Eventually Arthur joined her in her tears. It seemed she was already corrupted by the magic- it had already started consuming her and all that was left to do was fight against it. The two of them sat in the stables, ignoring the stench, holding each other as they cried. 

“I don’t want to lose you.” He whispered, hearing all of Uther’s tales echoing in his head. Tales about how magic will steal a person’s soul, replacing it with a power-hungry monster. He couldn’t bear to see it happen to Morgana. He couldn’t bear to watch her fiery spirit grow vicious, her kind heart turn to stone. 

“I don’t want to be lost.” She sobbed, burying her head in Arthur’s chest. 

“Then we’ll have to fight it.” Arthur decided to stop treating her as if she were already gone in that moment. If there was any hope left for Morgana, they would both need to be strong. They would need to force magic to give up on her, to go steal another soul because Morgana was too strong, too good for its corruption. 

“How?” She pleaded. “How on Earth can we fight it?”

“Well,” He started, but Arthur was forced to realize that without telling anyone, there was very little he knew to do. He had no clue how to stop magic, how to fight against it. “We have cold iron in the dungeons. That’s what we put on the sorcerers to stop their magic.”

“I can’t walk around manacled, Arthur!” She snapped, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dress. Arthur was grateful that she had stopped crying, at least. It hurt too much to see her so broken. “Don’t you think people will ask why the King’s ward is shackled?”

“Obviously we wouldn’t keep then on you all the time, you idiot! You said the dreams only come at night, right? And you only use magic while the dreams are happening?” 

“Yes.” She nodded and wiped at her eyes, cheeks turning red as she realized that they had both shown each other the ultimate weakness then. They'd never cried in front of each other, let alone held each other as they sobbed uncontrollably. Arthur felt the back of his neck heat up with the realization. 

“So we’ll just keep the manacles on you at night. Then you can’t use the magic and perhaps it’ll let go of you.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, and Arthur mirrored the action. 

“Okay.”

Each night thereafter, Arthur would sneak into Morgana’s rooms-where he and Gwen would bind her wrists in cold iron manacles. It kept whatever evil hiding beneath her skin at bay. Gwen began sleeping at the foot of the bed, ready to run to Arthur’s chambers should anything happen. Lancelot was the only other person to know, and without being asked, he would always bring her a cup of tea and a pastry beforehand. There was kind-hearted sympathy in the gesture, of course, but Arthur knew that a part of Lancelot did it just to see Guinevere. 

Sometimes the dreams were too strong and Morgana would wake with light-flecked irises and an ache in her chest. When that happened, Gwen and Arthur would be there in an instant to make sure she was okay. The cycle was vicious, and only confirmed what they all already knew about magic- that it was evil and sought only to corrupt all of the world’s goodness. But Arthur wouldn’t let it take Morgana, not if he had anything to say about it. 


	3. Chapter 3

Merlin jolts out of bed, covered in sweat and heart racing. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong, he thought, as he took off running to the forest without any regard as to where he was going. 

He didn’t pass anyone in the halls, as the sun had only barely risen. He was the only one awake, the only one feeling this strange call to action in his blood. 

Merlin fell to his knees as soon his feet touched the forest floor. He took a fistful of soil in each hand and shut his eyes, almost falling back asleep in the process. 

The magic sprawled from his fingertips like the roots of the trees beneath him. He normally only ever did this to help master a particularly difficult spell, even if Nimueh said he should do it at least once a day. “It restores the balance between your body and the Goddess.’” She and Morgause would insist at the same time, as though they spoke from the same mouth. But mostly, Merlin found this exercise to be slightly boring and unnecessary for someone with his power. Except for this moment, with his magic so far dug into the earth that he may as well be a tree himself

He made the conscious decision to reach his out farther, past the forest and into the next kingdom over. He’d never gone farther than a few hills at most, but then again, he’d never been woken with the need to do this in the first place. There must be something he was missing, a reason that lied farther than the scope of the fortress. 

As soon as he felt it-a white hot surge of power from the lake of Avalon-he ran to stables, not even bothering to saddle the horse before he took off. He could tell the others why he left later. All he knew was that there was ancient magic at play and someone was dying.

He raced towards the lake, magic guiding him to a place he’d only ever been once before. The wind was sharp, biting at his cheeks and bringing tears from his eyes. But Merlin rides on, ignoring the hot sensation beneath his skin, the ebb and flow of his magic as he got closer to the Sidhe’s home. 

Suddenly he’s there, at the edge of the forest where it opens into the grotto. Merlin doesn’t even wait for the horse to stop, he jumps off and keeps running. Somehow he knows that there isn’t enough time, that whatever he’s here to stop has already begun. He might already be too late. 

He sees a man being suspended beneath the lake, and a girl standing at the shore, arm extended, firmly grasping an ornate staff as she chants in a strange language. It must be Sidhe, Merlin thinks, from the subtle differences it has from druidic dialects. It sounds much more archaic, much more intimidating, like every word is endued with power. There’s a man standing beside her, and after a pause, his voice joins hers in the chant. 

Without thinking, Merlin shoots a hand out, willing his magic to grab the staff. The power inside of it is white hot, burning Merlin’s palm as intensely as any fire. The sensation is unlike anything he’s ever felt before--not quite pain, despite the burn. It was more of a surge of power, as every drop of his magic was focused, all against one target. It was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. 

He strikes at the man, without any regard for aim. His body is flush with power, with intensity, and a magic eons older than him. The man disintegrates instantly, but Merlin’s vision is so blurred from the burning in his arm that the victory is lost on him. He strikes at the girl next, dropping the staff as soon as she bursts into dust. 

Merlin’s hand is positively  _ throbbing  _ as he wades into the lake, where the body has already begun to sink. He swims out, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist, and dragging him ashore. Merlin nearly drops the body when the realization hits. 

“Goddess help me…” He mumbled. “Have I really woken at dawn just to save bloody Prince Arthur?” 

Merlin sets the Prince on the shore anyways, and collapses next to him. The journey, the lack of sleep, the burn in his right arm have left him exhausted and drained. The moral quandary of saving a man who killed a hundred druids was just the icing on the cake. Fate was ironic, above all else. 

He looked over at Arthur, who was still unconscious. Merlin thought checking his pulse would probably be treason against his kind, but he did lay a hand on his chest to make sure he was breathing. 

It was strange how peaceful Prince Arthur looked like this. With his hair plastered to his forehead, with water droplets cascading down his face, mouth pink and relaxed. There was no edge to this man, no wordless threats and scowls, like Merlin had seen in him that night last year. 

No, this man was soft, he was gentle. He looked more like a Prince, like a young boy on the cusp of something as opposed to a man that knew he would someday be King. He looked so bright, so full of potential, like he truly could be the man the druids said he was. 

As Merlin rode back to the Isle of the Blessed, holding the staff in his coat sleeve, he tried to force Arthur from his mind. Once again, he found himself trying to ignore the prophecy Iseldir and the other druids had told him almost a year ago. A prophecy about a King Merlin would fight beside, would lead into a great and unified Albion. A King they all thought was Prince Arthur. 

Nimueh had told him, though, that the Once and Future King could not possibly be Arthur. She said the Once and Future King wouldn’t be a Pendragon, that he probably hadn’t been born yet. Merlin tried to keep that in mind, as he kept looking back at Avalon, where he’d left the Prince defenseless and unconscious. 

༺═──────────────═༻

**One week later...**

“Necromancy?” Merlin shuddered at the thought but Nimueh kept talking. 

“Yes, Merlin. Necromancy is completely normal. It’s just another practice of magic.” She said, but Merlin couldn’t help but feel sick at the thought of animating a corpse. 

“But what about life needing balance? A life for a life? That’s why Queen Ygraine died, right?” He asked, and Nimueh’s expression darkened. 

“A Wraith isn’t a life, though.” Morgause answered, flipping through the necromancy book like it was the most normal subject in the world. “It’s not even a spirit. It’s just a body that needs vengeance. It’s a reanimated corpse, not a person returned from the dead.”

“How can it ‘need vengeance’ without having consciousness?”

“Not even death truly kills the rancor of men, Merlin.” Nimueh said coldly, eyeing him with suspicion, like she always did when he questioned her. Like he was going to betray her at any moment. “It is the only thing that lasts. Beyond love, beyond loyalty, only hate survives the end.”

Merlin swallowed, feeling as though that were somehow a threat. Ever since he had returned from Avalon, Nimueh had been downright mercurial with Merlin. She seemed to think everything he did was a sign of betrayal. 

“So what’s the plan?” He asked and her glare softened. 

“We’ll reanimate the corpse of Tristan De Bois.” Nimueh smirked as she fingered the scroll set out in front of her. “To avenge his sister’s death, and kill King Uther.”

“You don’t think he’ll actually take the gauntlet, do you?” Morgause asked, obviously already having heard the plan before. 

“If he doesn’t then De Bois will go through each knight until he Uther gives in.”

“What if he kills all the knights and Uther still doesn’t take the challenge?”

Nimueh paused, face pensive for a second before it returned to her normal, stony expression.

“Then I guess he’ll kill whoever agrees to fight. That’s the beauty of wraiths. You can’t kill what’s already dead. So it will just keep on killing until Uther surrenders to him.”

Merlin felt even sicker, stomach churning at the thought of innocent men agreeing to fight a monster in the name of their cold, maniacal King. It wasn’t fair to them, to the people, even to the knights, who would think they were being noble, when they were really only signing their own death tombstones.

“It’ll kill civilians?”

“It will kill anything stupid enough to take a challenge. And Goddess knows that there will never be a shortage of stupid men in this world.”

Merlin thought of Will instantly, for some reason. Of Will foolishly trying to fight whatever bullies came after Merlin when they were young. Of Will’s idiotic bravery, his need to defend anything he could. Will had the heart of a knight, in spite of his rogue spirit. It wouldn’t be the Pendragons that suffered because of the Wraith, he realized, already feeling bile rising in his throat. 

It would be the men, the boys like Will that were slaughtered. It would be young men, teenagers desperate to prove themselves, throwing themselves at the Knight, blindly believing in their own abilities. He knew without a doubt that Will would have agreed to fight the thing, just on the principle of wanting to prove he was better than a Knight of Camelot. Merlin thinks that a year ago, when he was sixteen and just as foolish, he probably would have tried his hand against an unkillable soldier as well. Just to prove that he wasn’t as weak as they all thought he was. 

“When are we performing the ritual?” He asked. At least he’d diverted their suspicion, even if there was a part of Merlin that felt like they shouldn’t go through with it. Even if he was already thinking of ways to kill a Wraith. 

There was something so intrinsically wrong about giving life back to the dead, about reversing the course of nature. Somehow, despite being the least knowledgeable of the Old Religion, Merlin felt like this went against everything the Goddess was. The Triple Goddess was the source of all life and magic. She controlled time and death itself. She was the one who commanded that Uther kill Tristan, with that subtle hand of fate. It felt like going against magic’s purpose to bring back the dead in any form. 

But then, if everything happened for a reason, if everything was truly the result of fate, what was the reason behind the Great Purge in the first place? Perhaps there was no real force of fate or destiny. Perhaps the prophecy, the legend of Emrys and the Once and Future King, was just the ramblings of a misguided seer. 

There was always the possibility that fate was made up, exaggerated retellings of visions that could only be one of many paths the future could take. If that were the case, then choice was the only real power any of them had. It was pointless for Merlin to worry about whether Prince Arthur was the man the druids said he was, or the villain Nimueh knew him to be. The only thing that really mattered was doing the right thing, was saving lives when possible, using magic for its beauty rather than its ugliness. 

“In two days time at sundown, on the twenty-first birthday of Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin wondered if Nimueh would banish him if he killed the Wraith. He wondered if she would kill him, if he could be killed. 


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, Arthur could feel Morgana’s gaze more intensely than anyone’s as he knelt in the center of the court. 

“Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs and laws laid down by your forebears?”

“I do, Sire.” He bows his head, and Arthur feels the weight of those three words more than he ever has in his whole life. 

“ Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgments?” 

“I do, Sire.”

He has known this oath, had it memorized, since he was a boy, but it feels so much different now. Now it is not a string of abstract promises, a to-do list for good rulers. Now, it is truly an oath. It is a promise he is making not to his father, but to his kingdom.

“And do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and for as long as you shall live?”

He shudders in a deep breath, shutting his eyes tightly, trying to conceal the tears threatening to spill there. 

“ I, Arthur Pendragon, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”

The rest of the evening is a blur. There are pats on his back, arms thrown over his shoulders, and endless congratulations. There is Morgana, growing pale and sicker by the day, but cheering him on nonetheless. There is Gwen, always fluttering at her side like a shadow. There is Lancelot, Arthur’s own shadow, who refuses to stop smiling all night. 

The events don’t really catch up to Arthur until there is a shattering of glass, and his sword is already drawn from instinct. There are shards caught in Morgana’s hair, and Lancelot’s at his back, assuming a stiff stance that couldn’t possibly be perceived as defensive by anyone save the most knowledgeable combat experts. 

There is a large black horse in the hall now, and atop it a knight clad in full obsidian armor. The horse approaches Arthur slowly, and a gauntlet is cast at his feet. Only Owain, with only seventeen and a week’s experience of serving as a knight, snatches up the gauntlet before Arthur can even sheath his sword. 

“I, Sir Owain, accept your challenge.”

“Single combat. Noon tomorrow. Till the death.” The foreign knight responds, and his voice seems to suck all the air out of the room. It is hollow and raspy, as though he’d been breathing in smoke for centuries. 

༺═──────────────═༻

“And so you have returned.” The voice creeps out into the cavern before Merlin has even reached the ledge. 

“You’ve missed me?” Merlin says as he takes a seat on the cliff's edge, steeling himself against whatever lecture was to come. The dragon is curled up like a dog on the mass of boulders in the cave’s center, long tail curled around itself. 

“Tell me, young warlock, has she told you of your identity yet?”

“Yes.” He grumbles, and begins swinging his legs out in front of him, staring down at the expense of rock below. Falling would probably be easier than this, he thought. 

“So, Emrys- are you here to save the life of your king?”

“Arthur Pendragon is not my king!” Merlin snaps, bringing his eyes up from the floor to meet the dragon’s. “I couldn’t care less if he and his father are slaughtered in the coming days. My only wish is that they are the only ones to perish.”

“If only it were so easy to deny destiny.” 

“If only you could say something helpful.” Merlin mumbled, training his glare up at the beast. “I’m here to ask you how I might kill a wraith.”

“You cannot kill-”

“That which is already dead. I  _ know.  _ That’s why I’m asking you.”

“The dead do not return without reason. Who has he come for?”

“Nimueh has summoned him to kill King Uther.”

“Then let it take vengeance and it will die without your intervention.”

“I fear that Uther will not give it the chance to take vengeance.” Merlin wondered how Nimueh would react if she knew he was here. If she knew that he was planning on betraying her before the first civilian death. 

“Why do you care?”

“I can’t-” He faltered. There were too many reasons, too many convoluted thought processes for Merlin to put them all into words. There was his mother’s voice, calling him a fool for choosing this path, even as he obliterated Kanen and his men with a single flick of his wrist. There was the guilt at the thought of innocent young men dying when Merlin could prevent it. On the other side, of course, there was Nimueh’s knowledge of magic, of the world. A knowledge that could be his if he maintained loyalty to her. Then there was Morgause’s noble heart, hiding underneath all her sadistic defenses. There was the guilt of betrayal no matter what decision Merlin makes. 

“I can’t stand idle while innocent men sacrifice themselves for a tyrant.”

“Are they truly innocent, though? Have  _ they  _ not stood idle while their king slaughters thousands of innocents? While he hunts magic to extinction?”

“It’s not their fault that they were born ignorant.” He feels a twinge of phantom pain in his ribs, remembering when Will had kicked him and hurt him when he discovered Merlin’s magic. He had been so afraid, so completely unaware of magic’s truth then. He still beats himself up for it. He spent every year after trying to make it up to Merlin. 

“Perhaps I was wrong about you, young warlock.” The dragon pauses for a moment, levelling Merlin with a gaze of judgement. “You may live up to your destiny afterall.”

“I will evade it as long as I live.” Merlin scowled. Just because he didn’t want innocent people to die didn’t mean he was going to subscribe to Arthur Pendragon’s vision for the world. It would no doubt be as cruel as his father’s. “Until there is a worthy enough king.”

“Evading your destiny would be splitting a coin in two.”

“Enough.” Merlin wasn’t shouting it this time, letting the sound barely escape his lips. He wasn’t even angry. He was just tired of the war inside of him-between his mother and Nimueh, between him and his magic. Between Merlin and Emrys. 

“Enough of destiny and coins. I need to kill the wraith before Camelot suffers the selfishness of its leaders.”

“Very well.” The dragon’s voice softened as it eyed Merlin, almost with pity. “But know that your hands are forever tied until you accept Arthur as the Once and Future King.”

“If I could let the wraith kill him, I would in a heartbeat.”

“You will need a sword burnished in dragon’s breath.”

“So if I bring you a sword-”

“There is great power in such a weapon.” The beast got up to its feet then, the lower tones of its voice crackling like firewood. “In the wrong hands, it could commit the most heinous acts of evil.”

“I won’t let it be used by the wrong person then.” Merlin clamored to his feet, trying to add more legitimacy to his promise. 

“I’m afraid I don’t trust your judgement of character.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your choices to trick fate and follow the Sorceress lead me to believe that your judgement is flawed. I don’t trust those you would deem worthy to wield such a powerful weapon.”

“I wouldn’t give it to anyone!” Merlin was shouting now, that fire of anger being ignited once more by the dragon’s insistence that he’d chosen wrong. “I just need it to kill the wraith, I’ll stab it myself and then I’ll put it somewhere no one will find it.”

“But are you worthy of it? Has your taste of true power not already poisoned you for these mortal consequences?”

Merlin remembers the feeling of the Sidhe staff. How physically blinded he’d been, only able to focus on the sheer intensity of it all. Chillingly, it was like a taste of immortality. There was no mortal world, no concepts based in reality in that moment. Perhaps if this sword truly was that powerful then he should fear it. He should fear what it would turn him into. 

“Who then, if not me?” Merlin knew the answer, upsettingly, without having to be told.

༺═──────────────═༻

Owain is killed swiftly, despite a blow that Arthur was sure should have been fatal. Yet, the Black Knight continued to fight until the young knight lay motionless on the arena floor. 

Pellinore is next, for Arthur wasn’t quick enough to snatch the gauntlet himself. His sword goes clean through the Black Knight’s chest, yet he is slaughtered just as easily as Owain. This time, before his father can have anything to do with it, Arthur’s gauntlet is thrown. 

“You can’t.” Morgana, who has grown pale and weak from months of sleeping in manacles, whispers. 

“I must. I won’t sacrifice another man, not when it was I that should’ve died first.”

“Do you know how lost I will be if I lose you?” Now her voice has gained volume, and she sits heavily in the loveseat by the window. “Who will take care of me?”

“There is Gwen and Lancelot.”

“Who will lead when Uther is gone?” 

“The people wouldn’t want a coward for a leader. If I don’t fight, I am unworthy of the crown.”

“If you die then Lancelot will never be knighted.”

“He has to fight.” The servant whispers from where he stands at the window. Lancelot, it seemed, was the only one to understand Arthur. He not only acknowledged the Knight’s Code, but respected it. 

“You don’t mean that.” Morgana practically whimpers, tears welling up in her eyes. She has grown softer in sickness, Arthur thinks, remembering how she would never cry in her youth. 

“I can’t bear to lose him, but there is honor at stake.” Lancelot’s voice is broken and Arthur knows his conflict well. He is torn between wanting to protect his Prince, and understanding the importance of the fight itself. Just as Arthur is torn between wanting to pull out, to save his own skin if only for Morgana, and knowing that he never could rescind the challenge. Not without losing everything. 

Arthur isn’t afraid of death, not really. He is more afraid of the world that he will leave behind, how uncertain and unknown it will be without him. He takes in a breath. 

“Lancelot, leave us, please.” His manservant leaves with a shake of his head. Arthur knows he will spend the knight with Gwen, and is comforted by the knowledge that they will have each other long after he is gone. He turns to Morgana once the door is shut. 

“If I am to die, Morgana, then let Uther know it is my dying wish for your husband, whoever he may be to replace me as heir to the throne. And you, as Queen, will Knight Sir Lancelot.”

“If I live long enough to marry-”

“You will stop wearing the manacles.” Arthur says before he can even think it through. “You grow sicker by the day and I can’t bear it anymore. If I am dead tomorrow, you cannot-you will not-follow me.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” She shouts, and she hasn’t shouted, hasn’t had the strength to in at least two months. “Set my curtains on fire? Leave it completely uncontrolled, let it fester until there is nothing left? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt Gwen?”

“Then go to the druids!” He shouts back, unable to watch the way she needs to support her head against the back of the chair after speaking. “Ask them to help you, my father be damned! I will not let magic cost you your life. If you die from this sickness, from suppressing it then you are letting it win.”

“I’m scared, Arthur. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to have something inside of you-something so raw, so unchecked by natural forces. It’s terrifying, knowing that I could kill you, kill Gwen or Lancelot, without a single weapon. I’m scared of what will happen if I take them off.”

Arthur is about to respond when he is interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Sire?” Gaius asks, sounding old and weary. Like he’s been kept up all week. “I have something to help you sleep.”

“Come in, Gaius. Morgana was just leaving.” Morgana rises from the loveseat without a word, nodding to Gaius briefly before she exits. 

“Is she alright, sire?”

“She’s just tired.” Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. He makes a mental note to see her again tonight, to have a proper last conversation before the fight. “And worried.”

“We all are. But you can’t afford to lose sleep, your reflexes must be sharp tomorrow. I’ve prepared you a sleeping draught, my lord.”

Arthur realizes that he has a point. He drinks the vial, nearly gagging on the potion’s foul taste. 

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t drink it for the taste.” He jokes, and Gaius manages a forced smile. 

“Why don’t you…” Gaius is asking him something, Arthur’s sure, but his hearing cuts out before the end of the question. His vision starts to blacken at the edges as the physician leads him to his bed. 

Sleep overtakes him before he is able to visit Morgana. 


	5. Chapter 5

Kilgharrah, as he finally tells Merlin to call him, names the sword ‘Excalibur,’ and describes it as “the finest blade to have ever been wielded by men.” Merlin thinks that it’s mostly because it was his breath that burnished it, because Merlin stole this particular sword off of a squire who was doing a particularly bad job of holding it steady. 

Nevertheless, the sword is complete. It is polished and burned gold from the dragon’s breath, reading  _ ‘Take me up,’  _ on one side, and  _ ‘Cast me away’  _ on the other. Merlin doesn’t ask what it means, because Prince Arthur had thrown down  _ his  _ gauntlet against the wraith and as luck would have it, Kilgharrah only agreed to burnish the sword if Arthur is the one to wield it. 

__ So Merlin creeps his way up to the Prince’s chambers, ducking behind pillars and into alcoves as servants and nobility filter through the halls. When he reaches Prince Arthur at last, he is fast asleep, not even stirring when Merlin shuts the door behind him. 

It is then that Merlin thinks to check his breathing, to make sure he has not been assassinated before the fight. But the Prince’s breath is present, slow, and eerily steady. There is an empty vial on the center table. 

“Why are we always meeting like this?” Merlin mumbles as he walks back over the Prince’s bed. He’s officially met Arthur more times unconscious than he has awake. That being said, an unconscious Arthur Pendragon was probably preferable to the alternative. 

Merlin’s trying to figure out exactly why the Prince is unconscious, seeming to have drunk a highly potent sleeping draught the night before a battle, when the chamber door is thrust open dramatically. A frantic servant bursts into the room, brown hair curling in every direction, tunic half unlaced and wearing only one shoe. He stares at Merlin for a moment before grabbing a sword off of the wall and advancing on the sorcerer. 

“Tell me, do all servants carry swords or are you special?” Merlin says because there is a part of him that loves this the most. He loves having such faith in himself and his abilities that he gets to joke around even when a sword is poised against his heart. His mother always called him a fool for relying on his magic, but Nimueh reminded him that it was a skill the same as any other. It was something he should feel confident in. All the same, he levels Excalibur against the other man’s chest. 

“Who are you and what have you done to him?” The servant asks, eyes narrowed, flicking to the Prince and back to Merlin again.

“That’s a far more complex question than you think it is, I’m afraid. Why don’t you just put your sword down and I’ll put mine down, and then together we can find why Prince Arthur drugged himself?”

“He didn’t drug himself. His father did so he could take his place tomorrow. What  _ I  _ want to know is-” In one swift motion the servant knocked Excalibur out of Merlin’s hands and the tip of his sword was against Merlin’s throat. “-what have  _ you  _ done to him?”

“ _ I  _ haven’t done anything.” Merlin waves his hand and the servant’s blade clatters against the back wall. 

“A sorcerer sneaks into the Crown Prince’s chambers for no reason? Somehow, I don’t believe it.” Completely unfazed by Merlin’s display, the servant pulls a short, simple dagger from his belt, points it at Merlin again. It bears a striking resemblance to Merlin’s own dagger. So much so that he has to unsheath it just to check that it’s still there. 

“I see your a man of taste.” Merlin breathes out, unable to keep a straight face. “So I’ll spare that weapon so long as you get it out of my face.”

“I’m not here to kill the Prince.” He continues. “I was actually going to give him that sword for his fight tomorrow but it seems he won’t be needing it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Okay now that really is a complicated question I don’t care to answer.” Merlin wasn’t ready to explain to himself why he was going to let Arthur kill the wraith to himself, let alone to a servant. 

“Tell me your name then.” 

“Which one?” There is doubt that the name ‘Emrys’ would mean anything to this servant, but Merlin has to wonder anyway.

“Whichever you like best.”

Merlin pauses. That really is the question, isn’t it? Somehow it feels like this moment is more important than a mere interaction with a servant. There is a gravity in those four words that Merlin has spent the past three seasons avoiding--fearing. 

“I’m Lancelot.” The servant says after a moment, and Merlin notices how his posture straightens with pride when he says it, like it is so much more than the name of a servant. 

“Emrys.” Merlin responds and Lancelot puts his knife back into its sheath. Merlin does the same and for a brief moment, they are staring at each other with paralleled curiosity. 

“I don’t know why.” Lancelot says. “But I don’t think you’re lying.”

“About my name?” Merlin asks, feeling a weight lift off of his chest, hoping for his identity to be confirmed by a stranger. He just needed someone to say it. He needed to hear it to know the truth. 

“About Arthur.” Lancelot clarifies. “I don’t think you were trying to hurt him.”

Merlin’s chest feels much heavier when he leaves than it did when he entered. So he didn’t need to save Arthur’s life for the third time in one year. It should have been a relief. There was no betrayal for Nimueh to discover and Uther Pendragon would die. 

Yet the weight of Excalibur is heavy in his hand. Tomorrow, when Arthur Pendragon wakes, he will be King. Merlin couldn’t imagine having such a weight thrust upon all at once like that. At least his destiny, his prophecy, relied on the birth of a great king to come true. Even if, though Merlin will never believe it, Arthur is that king, there is time for Merlin to come to terms with his destiny. Arthur will get no such luxury. 

Merlin can’t bring himself to go back to Isle of the Blessed, because Nimueh isn’t there and Morgause will be praying, or practicing swordplay until she returns. The other sorcerers and the druids there come and go. Merlin does not know them, he does not confide in them, and that is okay. He understands now that his secrets are his to take from to the grave, whenever that day might come. 

In a cloud of mist, Merlin transports himself to the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Deep in its paths, in the center of the valley, there is a great boulder. He approaches it slowly, on foot, determined to walk no matter how long it takes. 

The air is saturated with magic as he walks. Magic wells up under the surface with each step Merlin takes, a little spark of warmth in each golden footprint he leaves behind him. It illuminates a path in the darkness of the valley, with wildflowers blooming at its edges. 

The world seems to hold its breath as if waiting alongside Merlin. Waiting for Arthur to take the throne. Only then would the world be certain. Merlin would know for sure who his king was or wasn’t, and the tyrant Uther Pendragon would finally die. The only question left was if King Arthur would be his father’s son, or something else entirely. 

He stands in front of the boulder, the nervous energy of his magic leaving a path of flowers and vines behind him. If Nimueh finds out about this, Merlin’s life is surely over. But he made a promise to Kilgharrah, perhaps a more important oath than the one he made to Nimueh. He wasn’t going to let anyone unworthy get their hands on this sword. That was something worth dying for, if she ever found out. 

“May only those noble and worthy of its strength pull Excalibur free.” He mutters to a dark and empty valley. There are sprites, fae, and water spirits of the streams listening, of course. They all hold their breaths as Merlin thrusts Excalibur into a boulder, in the center of the Valley of Fallen Kings. There are no spells for these things--he merely asks the earth to bend for him, and so it does. The words become their own sort of spell, because when Merlin tries to pull out the sword, regret tickling at his mind, it stays cemented in the boulder. 

“Guess that settles that then.” He mutters, heat burning at his cheeks as he storms away from the sword. Kilgharrah was right. 

༺═──────────────═༻

There is a part of Arthur’s heart that has been missing ever since he was born. The loss of his mother, the knowledge that Arthur was the reason she was gone, made Arthur’s heart emptier than it should have been as a young boy. Uther knew this, and didn’t care to rectify it. He was a cold father, always more interested in Arthur’s training as a knight than his feelings. He asked Arthur to do things he didn’t want to, asked him to kill people and do things he didn’t believe in. All the same, Uther was Arthur’s father. 

He was the one to crown Arthur Prince, eyes twinkling with something dangerously close to pride. He was the one to cradle Arthur’s head to his chest when he was dealt a particularly nasty blow on the training fields as a boy. He was still all that Arthur had. 

And now he was gone. 

It is a bright spring day, full of colors and pollen being blown from the meadows. Arthur woke up to a clear sky,a dead father, and the fate of a kingdom in his hands. He wishes he could spend the day in mourning, holed up in his room, clutching his father’s cape, breathing in the scent of him before it fades away completely.

Instead, they crown him king, and brass has never felt so heavy in all of Arthur’s life, even as they all shout “Long live the King!” The words sting in a way he never thought possible. Fate, in all of its irony, is cruel indeed. 

He names Morgana as next to inherit the throne, despite her status as neither a Pendragon nor a man, should something happen to him. He names her children, should they ever exist, as his legacy until he has children of his own. 

He makes a new law, while Geoffrey is still there. Some may see it as disrespectful, but they are not the ones who have lost a father. He repeals the law that knights should be of noble blood. He knights Lancelot, who has spent the last year as his manservant and friend above all friends. 

He gets to say the three words that offer him a small amount of happiness on the worst day of his life. 

“Arise, Sir Lancelot.” And there is rejoice. Gwen kisses him on the cheek, cheeks pink and tight with her grin. He kisses her back, on the mouth, and it is so tender, so full of love, that Arthur has to look away. 

He can’t bring himself to look at Gaius, for his betrayal hurts nearly as much as his father’s death. Morgana sleeps without the manacles for the first night since last summer, at the King’s orders. She says that she is proud of him, and he responds that he feels sicker than she looks. They both laugh, smiles not quite reaching their eyes.

He goes to his father’s rooms, to retrieve his cape so that Arthur might never forget the way his father smelled. As a boy, Arthur suffered from a terrible fear of the dark. He would sneak out of his room and creep into his father’s chambers, not for his father’s comforting words or embrace, but for his cape. Arthur could sleep with it curled around himself like a blanket, feeling braver than he did before. 

There is a coin at his father’s bedside, gleaming silver in the candlelight. He slips it into his pocket before he blows out the candle, and shuts the door behind him. 

The sky is lit with stars, each one a little pinpoint of light that seems to shine for Arthur specifically. In the lower town, there is a band playing music on the streets, and couples dancing in joy, Lance and Gwen among them. It is not that they are happy to see Uther gone, Arthur knows, it is that their faith now lies in him and him alone. 

He pulls the coin out his pocket, letting it catch the moonlight in his palm. He runs his thumb over the tree on one side, feeling the little indentations of the engraving. He flips it over, and stares at the dragon on the other.


End file.
